


seven

by thepessimisticasshole



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Counting, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, ocd like thing, season four/five onwards
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:42:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepessimisticasshole/pseuds/thepessimisticasshole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>dean comes back different.</p>
            </blockquote>





	seven

**Author's Note:**

> so this is from season four or so, even though it doesn't really mention anything that's going on around that time. 
> 
> i'm not completely finished with supernatural, and this has been in my drafts and i wanted to finish it, so... here it is, i guess

dean comes back different.

dean comes back with one thousand tapping rhythms, one thousand strings of numbers, precise creases in every single shirt smoothed out over and over and over again. he comes back with mutters until he falls asleep (past that), with three strokes of the toothbrush over each tooth, with seven swishes of mouthwash exactly before the spit and the rinse, _one_ two three _one_ two three _one_ two three _splash_.

everything's locked into a pattern, even when it's too long and intricate for sam to understand- the brush brush of fingers on his sleeve cuffs before he rolls them up one two three and a half times, the tap of his fingers seven times on his elbow before he pulls it straight with two sharp tugs. repeat on the other arm, pull on the jacket (open it with five sharp snaps, swing it on like a king's cape, _careful._ careful or the shirt's going to snag and then we'll have to start all over again).

sam doesn't bring it up and dean doesn't bring it up, not even when he's sobbing, six's riding under his breath like poison he's trying to spit out (six is the bad number, sam thinks. _six_ is the number to avoid. _six_ is the number that makes dean flinch and gasp like he's been slapped and sam wants to know what happened down there but dean won't tell him and he's not going to force him, not really).

and sometimes dean just keeps going (and going and going and _going_ ), back and forth and back and forth with manic energy and red eyes and bruised elbows and knees because he's falling into walls and sam can't get him to calm down ( _one_ two three four five seven eight nine ten nine eight seven five four three two one, he's muttering, _skip skip skip skip skip_ )-

castiel comes with a flutter of wings, watches like he's feeling _sad_ for the first time (maybe he is), then taps dean on the forehead. he collapses into cas's arms, numbers quiet for once, and cas settles him gently into the crappy motel bed like he's made of glass.

"help him," says sam, but his voice rises on the end like it's a question.

"i don't think i can." cas is solemn and sober and ever so slightly disheveled, like he always is, and when he looks at dean it's full of something tender and... it's just full, that's it. sam has to look away.

" _please_."

when he looks up again, cas is gone.

\---

they go to bobby's, after a case (where dean had panicked, sort of, at a ghost appearing behind him, shot his gun almost into his foot. he supposes he is forty years rusty) and dean can feel the stares boring into his tapping fingers, _one_ two three four _two_ two three four _three_ two three _four_ four two three four _one_ two three four _two_ two three four _three_ two three four _four_ two three f-

he doesn't realize that it's becoming almost frantic until bobby clears his throat, loudly, and dean has to hide his still tapping fingers under that table because he's not quite There yet (he doesn't know exactly where There is, but he knows he's not at it) so he can't stop. he adjusts the books on the table that he's on, stacking them up and then re-stacking by size, because no one's saying anything and if he just lines this corner up with that one and that one and that one maybe he'll get There. he doesn't, huffs out a frustrated sigh, and eyes the massive piles of books everywhere. surely that will be enough.

"can i..."

bobby squints at him like he has something on his face- dean scrubs, reflexively, seven times exactly and he doesn't think there's anything there but- "what?"

dean nods over at the books, hands becoming twitchy again ( _one_ two three four _two_ two three four) and bobby still looks confused until sam nudges him and points at the neat stack of books dead center in front of dean and comprehension dawns on his face. "you want-" sam nudges him again, and bobby sighs. "whatever. go for it."

dean's aware of them talking behind him, quietly, and he's aware that this is a little weird, but he's focused and clear headed for the first time in weeks and it feels so wonderful that's he's almost grinning. first he wants to go by color, then he wants to go by size, then he figures he'd better go by topic to make it easier on bobby. he stacks them in piles of seven because seven is a good number, seven is a solid number,   _seven seven seven_ he's practically _singing_ it under his breath until he remembers that sam and bobby are _right there_ and he limits it to his brain. there are so many of them that dean knows it's going to take him well into the morning, more if he wants to be thorough (he does), and the thought sends something like contentment buzzing down his fingers. which is a little odd, since Before he hated cleaning.

he thinks they're talking about him, which makes him suspicious, which very very nearly makes him lose count (he's at 249 right now), and that won't do because he's always sort of wondered exactly how many books bobby has and now he gets to find out. there are stacks and stacks in rows and rows, on monsters and demons and fairies and angels and all of it, all of that knowledge and all those sevens (seven's a _magic_ number, a _lucky_ number, and it's everywhere he looks) makes him feel safer than he's felt in a long, long time.

and when the bookshelves are dusted, scrubbed, lined (for once) with neat rows of every single book (there are one thousand nine hundred and eighty one), dean feels like something warm has condensed in his stomach, and the only thought in his head is _seven seven seven_ slow and lazy and golden, like honey.

(he's not quite There, but he's closer than he's ever been.)

\---

sometimes it gets worse and sometimes it gets better but mostly it just _is_.

dean can hide it away, sort of, because it unsettles sam and he's never wanted that, but it slips out in counted sentences and finger taps on the steering wheel and everything tucked away, a place for everything and everything in its place. just like dad always said.

and he thinks he's getting better- or at least, he doesn't have to concentrate so hard to hide his flinches and his jokes are a little less forced and sam sometimes doesn't look at him like he's made of glass. (and, of course, there are the days where he has to down half a bottle of whiskey to get out of bed in the morning, where his appetite is so completely gone that even the thought of food makes him want to curl up and cry, where his hands shake so hard he has to twist them together so hard they hurt because sam _cannot_ _see_. but there are always those days.)

but the world is still made up of numbers.

he counted, down in hell, to distract himself. because demons are predictable. one two three four five _six_ seconds and they've run their hand down your face, and one two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven _twelve_ seconds they've decided what to do with you. demons are predictable. they work in sixes.

crowley is a demon, and he's no different, and the thought of him makes dean's mind go white with the static of them. _six six six six six six_ , everywhere he looks, six eyes and thirty six teeth and six sort of fingers on each sort of hand. he's more scared of crowley than he ever was of the yellow eyed demon (even when that one visits him) and then-

and then, fuck, he _sees_ him- he sees _crowley_ , when they're trying to rescue the angel-girl, and he's tucked into a meat suit but that _voice_ , those _eyes_ \- dean's spent forty years straight with those eyes locked on him. it's crowley. and it's all he can do to hold it together for a couple hours (actually all he can do- it sucks everything out of him) and then he's collapsing in the hotel bathroom, everything shattering around him like a the explosion of a star.

six six six, his mind whispers, you're not free. you're never free.

he's out of hell, but it's not through with him yet.

\---

he freezes, once, because something can read his mind and they whisper sixes and broken words and promises into his ear and down his back, until everything's a kaleidoscope of ringing trapped inside his head and iron bands around his chest and too much too much too _much_ -

"dean!"

there are hands on his shoulders, shaking him one two three four times, and he can't breathe he can't think he _can't he can't_ , _five four three two one crash_ there goes the world falling around his ears-

and there are two fingers on his forehead, and where they touch it's ice, spreading out, rippling down his arms and torso and legs and tucking him in, smoothing and hushing and erasing until there's nothing left in his head.

maybe not even him.


End file.
